Pas de Chat
by Maevelyn
Summary: When Molly and Sherlock rendezvous for ballet lessons, the last thing Sherlock is expecting is a new case - the strange behaviour of Molly's cat Toby. Johns doesn't know anything about the dancing, and Sherlock intends to keep it that way. Pre-Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

It was 3:00 on a spring Tuesday afternoon, and Baker St. was blissfully quiet for a change. Sherlock was just wrapping his scarf around his neck when John looked up from his blog and peered over the top of his laptop.

"You are wondering where I am going, and what I am doing," stated Sherlock just as John was about to talk.

"Actually," said John, stifling a smile and putting on his serious tone, "I don't care as long as you get the bloody milk while we're out. You had the last of it in your tea and I don't fancy a trip to Tescos this afternoon."

"Mrs. Hudson will allow you the use of hers," Sherlock answered, turning towards the door. It wasn't as if he was expecting John to mind where he was going, but John not caring was different. Caring was John's job.

Even so, John would not have been especially excited about where Sherlock was going. It wasn't as if Sherlock was being ashamed of his involvement in ballet, but he knew from experience that announcing he was a danseur wouldn't complement his image as cold and reasonable. And John would bloody well laugh at him. Before he could stop himself, he pictured John laughing, but it wasn't John at all. It was Mycroft, the memory coming up from the basement of his mind palace.

The room was flooded with sunlight, and all the French windows were open, letting the autumn breeze float in. Sherlock was only as tall as the armchair in the corner of the sunroom. But he was twirling gracefully through the room, remembering the music his mother had shown him earlier in the day on her violin. He had grabbed for it afterwards, but his small fingers made a clumsy parody of the melody she had easily made.

He contented himself by remembering, storing the music away in his mind as he danced. When he was listening to music, or when he was dancing, he could forget everything. He could forget being smart. He could forget Mycroft.

Mycroft had came into the room, and laughed at him before he gently but firmly told him to stop dancing.

"You're eight, you should be out squishing bugs or getting dirty," Mycroft said, "not playing the ballerina. Go take Redbeard out for a walk, and pretend to be a pirate."

Pirates were okay too. And walks were fun, looking at all the silly people who would call him a cute boy even when he could tell what their actual business was. They never liked him after he told them what they were really up to.

But dancing was better.

As soon as Sherlock had settled into Baker St. the first thing he did was research dance studios that would be willing to teach him more techniques. Now that he had a flatmate, dancing in the flat would be absurd and out of the question. So to a studio it was. He learned, and his teachers were surprised that he had never had lessons before. He bit his tongue for once, not telling them that observing dancers as opposed to just watching them was what taught him. But he said nothing. Dancing was too important.

As he walked down to the corner between Baker St. and Crawford St. he let the corners of his mouth turn up in amusement. The Work was really all that mattered in the end, but it was dancing that helped him regain his clarity of mind. Ballet was all about the poses and technique and rigid training, mental as well as physical to do everything that was demanded of him, to make every curve and line of his body fluid with the music. And for once, his mind could stand still instead of crashing in his ears.

Sherlock got out of the cab in front of the studio, turning his collar up against the spring air and against anybody who might be looking at him. The only person who knew he was a danseur was Molly, to whom he had used his dancing lessons as an excuse to not go get coffee six months previously. She had promptly enrolled in classes as well, and he was acquiring an appreciation for having somebody he knew at his dance classes. At least she was always going out of her way to be nice to him.

The other person who knew about his habits was Mycroft, who, no doubt, had used his security cameras to extract this information.

Molly greeted him at the door, handing him a strawberry banana smoothie.

"Thought you'd like this," she said. Judging by the flavour and the fact that the smoothie wasn't cold anymore, Sherlock knew she had ordered it for herself instead but had decided for some reason that she wouldn't eat it.

"Molly," he said in greeting.

"Hullo Sherlock," she said, pushing through the door and walking into the lobby. "How are you doing today?"

"Judging by the state of your eyes and your hastily done hair, you've been upset about something," Sherlock stated, waiting for her reply. It wasn't that emotion mattered, truly, but she would be more pleasant to dance with if she were in a better mood. His tongue had caused all of the other students in their class to switch to a different class time without an acerbic, obnoxious danseur and his timid friend.

"Yes," she said, "well, it's a silly thing to be worried about, Sherlock."

"If it's silly than it's a waste of your time as well as mine," said Sherlock, already regretting his decision to reach out. "We have ten minutes."

Sherlock was into his black tights and ballet slippers much more quickly than it took Molly to dress. He waited outside the women's changing room until she came out, apologising for how long she had been in there.

They waited in silence until the instructor walked in. Molly was fidgeting, but Sherlock didn't need to talk. It wasn't necessary.

As they warmed up at the barre under the instructor's supervision, Sherlock looked over his shoulder at Molly.

"Your cat is bothering you."

"Not him, himself," she answered, "but he keeps vomiting, and he never goes outdoors but every night he hacks up grass."

"Close the windows, and take him to a vet."

"I have."

"Silence." The instructors voice cut in on their conversation. He tapped at Sherlock's wrist until it was straight, and then took his rod and tapped Molly's toes on the barre. "Your foot is not a flag, keep it pointed."

"Yes, Mr. Geoff," he said, with only a hint of a whine in his voice.

The lesson went relatively silently, except for Mr. Geoff's instructions and the music filling the room.

"Changement, chasse, bourreé. Now pas de chat. No, Miss Molly, more gently. You are not a grasshopper."

Sherlock focused solely on each movement of his muscles and his weight shifting as he completed each exercise. When the lesson was over he walked back to the changing room, arching his back like a cat and raising his arms. He was always sore afterwards.

He had completely forgotten the strawberry banana smoothie on the counter near the changing room mirror. Molly must have given it to him before the lesson. He sucked at the straw absent mindedly as he fished in his bag for a towel to towel the sweat off his face and torso.

A cat that never went outdoors, vomiting up grass. It had to go outdoors. But how? Even though it had to have some mundane explanation, he set to work on the problem. The cat could possibly escape through a window, if the window was open, or an air vent. Did Molly have air vents in her flat? He couldn't remember, he had deleted her flat a long time ago to make space for a study on the effects spider venoms upon human flesh.

It would be completely without point for somebody to break into her flat every night and take her cat outside, only to return it in the morning. People are rarely so random. Maybe it ate grass while it was outside, why was it outside? Why did cats eat grass? What do cats eat anyways? Sherlock wasn't quite sure. But what anybody wanted with Molly Hooper's cat was difficult to fathom. He would need more data.

He walked out into the lobby with a purpose. Molly was already waiting for him. Her waiting didn't make sense, since she had to take a cab to North Gower St. but today her waiting was useful instead of a ridiculous waste of time as it usually was.


	2. Chapter 2

"Your cat is either escaping or being taken outside."

"Nobody takes him outside, Toby that is. Don't worry, Sherlock, I'm sure there's an explanation."

"I'm not worried. You, however, are." He corrected her.

"Good... Dancing today Sherlock."

"Yes, it was rather good today, wasn't it. You must work on your landings, you sound like an elephant."

"Okay," said Molly. That was one of her more frequent responses. Statistically speaking, that was usually the end of a conversation.

Sherlock raised his arm to call a taxi.

"Oh, and Molly," he said, as he got into the cab, "you should get yourself another blended, fruit flavoured drink. I'm afraid I drank yours."

"I gave it to you." Molly stood on the kerb, watching as Sherlock's cab left.

Yes, he thought, but I doubt you bought it on purpose for me. Toby the cat is going to cause problems.

Sherlock got back to Baker St looking for all the world as if he hadn't been dancing ballet for the last hour and a half. If he stepped a little bit lighter and if there was a touch of pink in his typically pale cheeks, he knew that John wouldn't notice. Walking through the flat, he dumped his ballet bag in his bedroom-turned-storage-room and plopped back on the couch.

"I didn't buy the milk," Sherlock said by way of greeting.

"No," said John, "that's far above your genius. It's not as if you didn't pass a Tescos at some point."

"I did not pass a Tescos."

"I've been in all day, there's no chance of me having passed a Tescos either. Sometimes, you could make an effort."

"I could," said Sherlock, frowning and rummaging under the sofa for his Persian slipper. He wanted a nicotine patch. Nicotine was always good after ballet.

"No," said John, standing over him, "you have not earned one of those. You went... Out for a walk, or something, and you didn't get the milk. You aren't even on a case."

"They are mine, and I want one." Sherlock was petulant, looking up at John with an expression which had a 77% chance of being effective.

"Honestly, you're like a... A toddler or something. Christ, Sherlock! I am not your mother or your nanny, but it bloody well feels like it. Now go get the milk, or I'll have to do it."

Sherlock flopped over on his side, facing away from John. He heard footsteps receding towards the doorway. He took out the nicotine patch he had crumpled in his hand and applied it to his forearm, feeling a sense of victory. Just as he had applied it, John's bemused voice echoed off the stairs.

"Sherlock," he called, "what is this?" John walked up the stairs, a black ballet slipper dangling from his right hand.

"Ballet slipper," he answered, with a hint of annoyance. Firstly, it was obvious what it was, and secondly, it must have carelessly slipped from his bag.

"I know what it is," answered John, "the question is, why?"

"Why, what?"

"Sherlock. Obviously this is yours, it's what? A size 47?"

"You have questions," Sherlock intoned.

"Not really, just the one." John stood, the slipper still dangling from his hand, but his face was not angry at all, not mocking. Just puzzled and slightly amused.

"You are wondering why I have ballet slippers, it doesn't require an explanation."

"So you're on a case?"

"No."

"So you are taking ballet lessons, because?"

"Because I want to. Problem?"

"No, not really." Shaking his head, John dropped the slipper in Sherlock's lap and wandered off to the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, smirking a bit. He knew what John would say next, in approximately 3 to 8 seconds.

"You bloody git! You knew there is no milk! Christ, Sherlock!"

Wednesday was rainy and cold, and John had lit a fire. Sherlock was prone on the couch, and had been for some time.

"Phone."

"You get up and get it."

"But the floor is cold."

The cell phone went zinging across the room and landed on Sherlock's stomach, which was piled up with blankets, two newspapers, and a Cadbury wrapper which had constituted last night's dinner.

Sherlock grimaced and picked up his cell phone.

"Lestrade's an idiot, Donovan's an idiot, Anderson is an idiot, and-"

"What is it now," asked John, "I didn't think you had any cases."

"Two threes that they were baffled by, but I was told one was a ten which was absolutely preposterous! My brain is rotting, John, rotting because these imbeciles are bothering me with their trivial cases!"

"At least they have cases for you," John admonished, peering at Sherlock over his red laptop.

"They wanted me to check on some robbery, plain and simple. It was the owner of the diamond store, he was obviously trying to cash in in his insurance policy! And the one about the sick horse, it was obviously a-"

"A poisoning to alter the betting pools, Sherlock, we have been over all of this already. Isn't there anything interesting?"

"Nothing."

Just as John was considering wrestling Sherlock off of the sofa and dragging him down to Scotland Yard or Barts Hospital or anything to get him out of the house, the doorbell rang. Not once. It was as if somebody was frantically pulling at the doorbell. Somebody was.

Mrs. Hudson let the client in and she raced up the steps.

"Molly?" John asked, confused. Her hair was a mess, and her face was clearly terrified.

"Toby was covered in blood this morning." She stared at Sherlock, and then looked back to John. There was blood on her hands and down the front of her jumper. "He doesn't appear to be injured, but he was drugged when I woke up. He's in a basket at my flat, I didn't want to move him."

"Toby?" Sherlock asked confused.

"Her cat," said John, shooting an apologetic glance at Molly.

"Oh yes, the cat. He's been... Vomiting up grass, right? And now he comes back covered in blood. Thank you Molly, this will be the most interesting case I've had in weeks. A vacation from boredom! A holiday! John, get your bag. We're going." He was up in a flash and running off, wearing nothing but his blanket as he dashed into his bedroom.

Molly was watching the whole scene wide eyed.

"He does that," said John, "that is par for the course as far as Sherlock is concerned. If you'll excuse me, I have to fetch my bag and grab a waterproof. The weather is bloody awful."

Sherlock was dressed and out of his room just as John was coming down the stairs with his bag. Gone was the disheveled mad genius. Where he was messy hair, candy wrappers, and one phone call from Lestrade away from combusting, the professional looking consulting detective was all sharp lines and cheekbones, the picture of crime solving prowess.

"So, shall we go to my flat?" Molly asked, her knuckles white and gripping the back of John's old chair.

"No, Bart's," Sherlock answered, "Toby will be fine, probably slightly brain damaged, but the chloroform won't kill him. It was, wasn't it? Chloroform?"

"Y-yes, I suppose it was," said Molly.

"You reek of it. John?"

"Yes?"

"Stethoscope?"

"Got it," he said, patting his bag.

Sherlock raced down the stairs three at a time, leaving John and Molly in his wake.

"Taxi!"


	3. Chapter 3

"Barts?" Molly asked, squished between Sherlock and John in the cab.

"The blood, you said it isn't his," answered Sherlock, "so whose is it? Was it frozen or fresh? Animal or human?"

"Okay."

"There should be enough blood on you to get a decent sample, and then you and John are going to go visit Toby. I'll be along with the results."

"Okay."

"John, I need Toby's blood pressure and heart beat rate."

"Yes. Anything else?"

"No, John," said Sherlock, gazing out the cab window, trying to piece something together in his mind palace.

Molly was squirming a bit in her seat, trying to sit properly between two grown men. John was squashed against the door, but Sherlock was being less accommodating.

"For goodness sake - Sherlock, budge up a bit."

"Why?"

"Do it."

"No really, I'm fine," Molly said, grimacing and trying to keep her blood soaked jumper from contacting either John's or Sherlock's coats.

Luckily it wasn't a terribly long ride to Bart's.

Sherlock leapt out of the car with his coat swirling behind him, and Molly and John followed close behind. The lab was only down and to the left, and nobody got in their way. All three of them were well recognised at the hospital, and nobody ever made more than a token protest against Sherlock's presence any more.

"Give me your jumper," Sherlock said, already sitting on the only convenient lab stool, "I'll need to cut several samples."

"I haven't anything on under it," Molly mumbled.

"Have you anything spare around?" John asked, knowing her job was messy with autopsies and all.

"Just the lab coat," Molly said, grimacing. John looked in the direction she was grimacing in, and saw the lab coat hanging in a corner. It was spattered all over in grey matter.

"Brains," Sherlock said, "charming. Put it on, we haven't all day."

Molly yanked her jumper off over her head and handed it to Sherlock, who appeared to be very interested by her forehead all of a sudden. She turned on her heel and fetched her lab coat, obviously upset by the fact that she would never have her jumper all in one piece again.

"Go make yourselves useful with Toby," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand, dismissing them from the lab.

Once they were in the cab, John glanced over at Molly, who was very pale and fidgeting with her hands.

"It's okay," John said, "we'll go take a look at Toby, Sherlock said he'd be fine."

Molly didn't answer.

"Neither of us were Iooking at you, you know. When you took your jumper off."

Molly stared at him as if he were missing the most obvious thing in the world.

"My cat will be brain damaged, my jumper is getting cut into pieces, and Sherlock wasn't interested in me even to look when I was standing in my bra. John, my day is going from bad to worse to worse and when we go h-home, I'm afraid T-Toby will be - will be d-dead..." Molly buried her face in her hands.

"Molly. Molly Hooper. We don't know that your cat will be brain damaged, not yet. He will be alive. Moll-Molly! Listen to me. I'll ask Sherlock to - I don't know, to buy you a new jumper or something. And he isn't - he isn't interested in anybody, he's married to his work."

"You love him too." Molly's voice was piercing, convicted. She peered through her hands and looked at John, her honey eyes searching his face.

"No, I really don't. He is an absolute git."

"As you say," she said shakily.

"Now," said John, attempting to change the subject somehow, anyhow, but all his brain could come up with was something Sherlock related. "Did you know Sherlock dances the ballet?"

"I take lessons with him."

"Right. I didn't know that was even something he was interested in."

They lapsed into silence, the rain beating down on the outsides of the taxi.

When they got to the building, Molly unlocked the door and took two flights of stairs to her third floor flat.

John took a look around, taking in all of the colourful and oddly placed decorations. He was not at al a detective, but he could tell that Molly didn't have visitors very often. The chairs were piled up with bits and pieces, and the largest chair next to the fireplace was piled up with cushions and blankets and... A blood soaked blob of fur which could only be Toby.

"I didn't know where else to put him," Molly explained, as John slowly approached the unconscious cat.

"This will do," said John, examining the prone feline before taking out his steghoscope. "Molly, could you please time a minute?"

After counting, John pulled the stethoscope earpieces away from his ears and hung it to rest around his neck. "Ninety three beats per minute," he announced. "What is normal for a cat?"

"Er," said Molly, rummaging around in her bag, and then in a few drawers in the kitchen, "I'll find it, I can google it..."

"The average heart rate for a cat is between 110 and 160 beats per minute."

"Sherlock? How did you get in?" Molly asked, wheeling around.

"You forgot to lock the doors. Is this how Toby gets abducted and returned?"

"No, I always lock them, I was just in a rush."

"Take better precautions. Molly, John, what do these readings tell you?"

"Sherlock," John said, "we are not playing this game again, you already have it worked out and you want us to sound like idiots."

"No," said Sherlock, "no, I need you for a common perspective."

"Thank you," said Molly dubiously, but nevertheless reached for the proffered sheet.


	4. Chapter 4

The lab result sheet in Molly's hands shook a bit, but John's hands were still.

"So, the blood is fresh, human blood?" John raised an eyebrow and looked over at Sherlock.

"No, I just brought you a faulty lab sheet, of course it's fresh and human, just think!"

"Er," Molly started, and then changed her mind.

"Yes?" Sherlock looked at her impassively.

"Somebody could have either abducted Toby and harmed themselves to cover him in blood, or-"

"There's a victim?" John interrupted.

"Most likely a murder has taken place, or at least an attempted one. That's why you need your bag, John Somebody wants to scare... Nobody would want to scare Molly. Not particularly important, no, somebody wants to send a message. "

"Not important?" Molly asked quietly.

"Not the time," John answered. "Have you got the body yet?"

"I will," started Sherlock, and then his phone rang, "momentarily."

"Lestrade. Yes. No. No, no! I'll take a taxi." Sherlock stuffed his phone back into his breast pocket and made for the door.

"John, Molly? Get Toby and come with me."

"Toby? But he's-" Molly started.

"Get. Toby."

Molly scooped up the limp, bloody cat and was about to carry him out the door when John stopped her.

"Get a lead or something, he'll be out of it soon."

"Right." Molly grabbed a lead and attached to her cat's collar, tying the other end around her wrist.

They hurried outdoors to where Sherlock was hailing a taxi.

"I'm not carrying that in my cab," said the first taxi driver who showed up and saw the bloody scrap of fur Molly was carrying.

"Put it up your jumper, John," said Sherlock as he sent rapid fire texts.

"No. No no no no, Shelock, this is a bad idea."

"The cat, John," Sherlock replied, putting his cell phone back into his breast pocket with a flourish.

"I can take him," Molly said.

"No, he is too large to fit under your lab coat, it's a rather stiff material and won't give enough room."

"Sherlock," said John, "you are taking the cat."

"John-"

"Take. The. Cat."

"His name is Toby!" Molly squeaked.

"Toby, Terence," said Sherlock, at the same time that John said, "Yes, Toby. Right."

Sherlock reached for Toby with an un characteristic gentleness and tucking him into the folds of his coat.

"Taxi?" John asked, before receiving the nod of approval and reaching his arm out to flag the taxi down. He squashed the feeling of - what was it? jealousy? at Sherlock's careful treatment of the cat as he stepped into the cab cradling it under his coat. It was just that Sherlock was suddenly caring for the cat more than he had ever seen him care for a human, he decided. Of course, Toby was a piece of prime evidence, that's what he was.

At Scotland Yard, Sherlock strode out of the cab leaving John and Molly to pay the cabbie. It fell to John, because Molly had left her purse at home in their haste to resume the quest to pursue Toby's attacker, the murderer, and the stranger with whose blood Toby was drenched.

"He'd bloody well better pay me back," John griped to Molly as they headed off in the general direction that Sherlock had headed.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was having a discussion with Lestrade.

"Christ, I don't know, Sherlock," Molly and John heard Lestrade say as they rounded the corner into his office, "a bloody - no that is not a pun, but a cat?"

"The blood on this cat," Sherlock said, pulling the limp cat out of the front of his jacket and almost thrusting it under Lestrade's nose, "WILL match with that of the victim, don't you see?"

"What should I see? Oh hullo, John - Molly! Wasn't expecting you two."

"Toby - the cat, Toby, Toby the cat has been removed from Molly's flat every night and returned in the morning for how long? A week?" John supplied.

"Nine days," Molly answered.

"Right," John continued, "nine days, and he's been vomiting up grass, so... Perhaps he's been outside?"

"No," Sherlock cut in, "he was fed grass."

"You can't just - okay, why?!" Lestrade asked with a hint of annoyance.

"He was fed grass to make us believe that he was being brought outside or escaping outside. Toby only ever went as far as the door. Now, Toby must have been friendly with or on good terms with his abductor. Molly recently ended a toxic relationship with one Mr. James Moriarty."

"Seriously, Moriarty?" Donovan was walking around the corner, carrying a stack of papers for Lestrade.

"Yes," Sherlock said, nodding curtly by way of greeting and snapped back to his story. "As I was saying, this crime is unusual, absurd, only a madman would be the perpetrator."

"So, a twisted, psychotic ex boyfriend. Might just do it for revenge." John interjected.

"I didn't know he was like that," Molly said, "he was...nice."

"Too nice. No, no, he wouldn't be too badly cut up after the breakup, seeing as Molly isn't the femme fatale he would go for and that he can have the pick of any heiress or prostitute in London. He needed connections. Connections to me, to use her cat as a pressure point. Moriarty is trying to send us a gruesome message."

"So... Moriarty murdered a man just to get a message to you through Molly's cat," asked Lestrade, "why?"

"Why do I always have to repeat things to you people?" Sherlock snapped. "Show us the body."

Lestrade hoisted himself up out of his desk chair and began walking to the mortuary.

The body was that of a young man, possibly late twenties, early thirties, Sherlock noted as they entered the room. His throat was slashed from ear to ear. Around his neck was a piece of what looked like women's jewellery. On closer examination, it was a pendant etched with a miniature cat.


End file.
